fiction.

word of the day: fiction \fik-shən\ something invented by the imagination or feigned

Yesterday I did something I haven’t done since about seventh grade; I conjured up a fictional story.  I don’t know what came over me exactly.  I think it was a combination of an exceptional piece of fiction one of my students wrote recently and The Write Prompts (the website I referenced in my previous post).  Yesterday’s writing prompt can be found here (you should follow the link as it will provide a small piece of insight as to where my thought process began).

There’s some commentary I could attach to this piece of writing, but I’m going to save that for another time.  The beauty of reading anyway is that it speaks differently to different people.  I’d hate to unnecessarily color your lens.

But that’s enough of the disclaimer…

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I buttered my toast while I watched the clock.  8:51. I should have been out the door six minutes ago.  Minutes go a long way in the morning.  They can mean the difference between a red light and a green light and can affect the kind of lunch you have time to make for yourself.  Frustrated at the realization that a granola bar would have to suffice, I grabbed my purse and headed out the door.  The brisk air met me.  I had anticipated a warmer greeting, so my lack of coat caught me off guard.  I grumbled to myself in response to the chill.

I walked a half a block down the street to the bus stop and stood surrounded by a sea of strangers.  One woman sat on a bench reading a book.  I looked more closely.  Twilight.  I rolled my eyes.  A young man in the corner swayed to the beat of his iPod and a business man chattered busily on his cell phone.  I stood and stared at my recently painted fingernails wishing I had chosen a color other than the coral that now seemed a little too perky for my morning.

The bus arrived late as usual and I filed into my regular spot in the front.  I put my bag on the seat next to me to deter any potential neighbors and took out my planner.  The day ahead was relatively easy.  No appointments until after lunch and no pressing deadlines until the beginning of next week.  As I began to anticipate the crossword puzzle I could finish once I got to work, the bus came to a stop.  I made sure to stand and exit before anyone else and stood on the sidewalk for a moment as the bus drove into the distance.  If only the bus wasn’t so economical.  It wouldn’t be my first choice for transportation.  I threw my purse over my shoulder and started down the street.

The Starbucks on Sixth Street was unusually busy.  I sighed as I took my place behind a large woman.  She wore a cream sweater which seemed unnecessary in anticipation of the heat and rocked back and forth on her heels.  Her constant movement immediately irritated me, and I moved to the side to escape her range of motion.  I glanced at her profile and noticed that her face had been rubbed raw.  Feeling uncomfortable at her presence, I looked away to a painting on an opposite wall. 

Her humming brought me back to her.  It was a nervous sort of humming.  The beat was erratic and didn’t match the steady rhythm in which she rocked.  I looked around to see if anyone else was watching her, but no one else seemed to notice.  As her turn at the register arrived, it took her a couple of moments to step forward; her lack of urgency angered me.  Didn’t she know there were people behind her who had places to be?

She ordered a small milk, and I almost laughed when she said it.  Taking up my order space for a drink you can pour at home?  Come on, lady, I thought.  Some of us want grown-up drinks. 

The barista asked her for $1.47.  She took out a dollar and then opened up her change purse.  She pulled out a half-dollar and then gasped inwardly as she stared at it.  Like she’d never seen one before.  She just stared at it but didn’t do anything else.  I tapped my toe in frustration.

“Hey lady,” I said, “think you could speed the process up?  You can pay with that.  It is real money after all.” Her shoulders tensed and then sank as she handed the half-dollar to the woman who waited uneasily behind the counter. 

As she turned, our eyes met for a moment.  Hers looked deep into mine and I sensed she felt sorry for me.  I scoffed at the thought and took my place at the counter.  How could a person like that feel sorry for a person like me? 

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I scrubbed my face repeatedly.  I looked in the mirror and was startled by the state of my skin.  Still, I scrubbed more.  Maybe I could physically rub the pain away. 

I walked away from the sink and got dressed.  I put on my jeans robotically and grabbed a ratty, old cream sweater.  For whatever reason, that one had been her favorite. 

I stepped outside into the cool air.  It burned my raw skin, and I touched my hands to my cheeks.  I took a few deep breaths and then moved slowly forward.  Even walking took extra effort now.  I walked with no direction.  Everywhere I looked there was something to remind me of her.  The porch swing took me back to our summers at the cabin.  The green grass brought memories of hours spent finding shapes in the clouds.  The daffodils took me to her funeral just a few days earlier. 

“They’re your favorite, mom,” she had said.  “If you have them everywhere, maybe you won’t feel so sad.”  I couldn’t deny her request.  Unfortunately they hadn’t helped.

They didn’t help today either.  I turned in the other direction and walked away. 

I ended up in front of a Starbucks.  I walked inside and stood in line.  I rocked back and forth on my heels in order to assuage the tears.  They were a constant presence now that threatened to burst forth at any given moment.  The rocking helped.  The rhythm took my mind off the need to cry.

Soon I realized that my rocking was accompanied by humming.  It happened to me often—subconscious humming.  The humming no longer followed a tune.  Instead it reflected the sadness within me.  It was tuneless and without emotion.  The notes were stagnant and lacked order.  I stopped myself in time to realize I was next in line.  I wondered how long I had stood there unaware.  The barista gave me a nervous smile, and I realized I had no idea what I wanted to order. 

“A small milk,” I said suddenly.  Her order. 

The girl asked for $1.47.  I handed her a dollar and then opened my change purse.  I pulled out a half-dollar and breathed sharply.  She had put it in my hands just a few days earlier. 

“You’ll have to let it go some day, mom.  Just like you’ll have to let me go.  I know you can do it.”

I flipped the coin in my hands as I remembered her kind countenance.  She was only ten, and yet I found myself finding solace in her wisdom.

“Hey lady, think you could speed the process up?”  The words shook me back to reality.  My shoulders tensed.

“You can pay with that,” the voice said referring to the coin I held preciously in my hand. “It is real money after all.”

My shoulders fell as I handed my half-dollar over.  I couldn’t let all of her go yet, but maybe this was as good a time as any to start. 

As I turned around, my eyes met the angry voice.  How could she know? Our lives had intersected at this moment, but she was oblivious to the pain of a stranger.  I pitied her ignorance as I pitied my own pain—with an emptiness that surfaced through my hollow eyes.  She shouldered past me to the counter, and I walked towards the door wishing the whole world didn’t seem so unfriendly.